Title: Moonstar
Ch. 16: Open Wounds
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Only get pleasure, no money. Welcome to the world thru my eyes.
Summary: Dean is crashing after a string of bad jobs. One last, terrible incident pushes him over the edge. He's on a downhill slide and the Moonstar is the last place he needs to be.
A/N: This is not the last chapter but I now you've been waiting for this one. You're reviews threatening me, whipped me into a fever pitch. I love you all. Your words mean so much to me. Hope you like this. Hope it was worth the wait. (Standing to one side, nervously chewing nails) It's long. Reminder, there is a reference to my story Rituals in this, if you haven't read it, a part of this won't mean as much as it might. It refers to a particular behavior pattern of Dean's. However, you don't have to read it for this chapter to make sense. If you have read Rituals you'll understand what I'm saying, I hope. It's not a big deal.
Dean came semi-awoke, lost in a haze of stifling heat, the air so thick it felt solid as he struggled to draw it into his lungs. The effort alone sent his heart thudding and he gasped weakly through his mouth, dragging his arm across his sweating forehead.
He rolled onto his side, trying to ease the nausea in his stomach. It felt like every muscle in his body ached and his head was filled with an insistent vibration that seemed to be growing with every labored beat of his heart. Weak moonlight lessened the gloom and his eye fell on Sam, collapsed in an ungainly pile on his bed, exactly like he had fallen asleep.
Dean felt a surge of guilt for what he'd put Sam through the last few days. Hell, he thought, the last year. Or 20. Unbidden, memories began to filter across his mind.
Standing outside their house as it burned, clutching Sam in his arms.
Sam as a laughing baby, splashing in the tub as Dean tried to bathe him.
Huddling together under the bedclothes during a storm, the first time Dad didn't come home all night.
Teaching Sam to hold the shotgun correctly, so the recoil didn't knock him down.
The choking fear every time they went on a hunt with Sam and Dean feared for his brother's safety.
The first heart stopping time Sam had gone down and not gotten up again, blood everywhere.
And every time after that.
The night Sam left for Stanford.
Sam fighting and screaming as Dean dragged him from his flaming apartment, leaving Jess behind to burn.
Sam, standing by the side of the road, alone in the dark, as Dean drove angrily away.
He ground his fists into his eyes, making a muffled sound of anguish. God, if only he hadn't been so spineless and hadn't forced Sam back into this he might still have his pretty girl and his pretty life….
Are you enjoying the show, boy? I can show you more.
He felt the words more than heard them, but they rang loudly in his head nonetheless. He jerked his hands down and rolled back over, head spinning. Through a drifting fog he could make out a tall figure in dark clothing standing at the foot of his bed. The figure moved closer and Dean could make out the goatee and slightly balding man he had seen in the, seemed like a century ago pictures, Sam had shown him. This was Doctor Nigel Becker, renowned cancer specialist, standing at the end of Dean's bed, a pissed off look on his face, agitatedly tapping a pair of glasses on the footboard,
"Who the fuck are you?" Dean said anyway, not really surprised. At this point he knew he was dreaming, if not delirious. What the hell did it matter?
Don't play with me, boy, Becker snarled. If you think you suffered unintentionally in Margaret's hands, don't doubt what I'm capable of doing on purpose.
"You shouldn't be here," Dean drawled, he was having trouble collecting his thoughts. "You're buried in Florida, you sick son of a bitch."
Stupid boy. Becker leaned on the footboard. Margaret was mine until that cancer ridden weakling took her away from me. If I was willing to kill her rather than lose her, don't you think I would make my own small sacrifices to make sure I could still reach her if Iwanted to.
Dean stared at the long slender hands gripping the foot rail. There was something wrong with them but he couldn't put his finger on it.
I can't undo what's been done but I can make your precious brother regret every moment of your presence here….
Dean tried to struggle upright. "Leave my brother alone! If you hurt him—" Blood began to thunder in his skull.
Becker laughed, like breaking glass. I have no intention of hurting him. He assured Dean. I'm going hurt you.
"You can't do anything to me." Dean bluffed, even as the room was starting to shift.
I won't have to. Becker said with a thin smile. Trust me. You've got more than enough ammunition to do it to yourself. All you need is a little push and you'll be over the edge…
What you do to yourself will be much more painfulfor your brother to deal with than anything I could ever do to him.
Becker straightened with a sigh. Such a waste of a life, he turned slowly away, as if it no longer mattered. Nothing but death and destruction follows you everywhere you go because of your useless interference. Becker looked back over his shoulder, studying Dean with a sad smile.
Don't you think it's time to stop?
Dean screamedas the thick stone walls inhis mind, already weakened and shaky, blasted apart and he was swept away in the maelstrom, drowning in a whirlpool of blood and horror. A lifetime of terror, hurts, failures and disappointments washed over him and through him, replaying each tragic, life altering moment he had buried with such care that he had convinced himself they no longer existed. He was helpless against the onslaught and fell, crushed beneath its weight, leaving his soul ripped apart.
He came to, after a fashion, drifting, not really aware of his surroundings but conscious of movement. He could sense the presence of others around him, could hear a soft whisper of conversation but not really clear enough to make out the words. His muscles felt so heavy, it was almost painful to try to move. He became aware, after a dizzy moment that it wasn't he who was moving but rather, his surroundings were moving around him. He reached out and felt nothing yet the air around him felt solid, oppressive.
He realized he was standing, a thick white mist writhing around him. The voices came from the mist, the words gradually becoming clearer as he stood and listened. Cocking his head as if to hear better.
Murderer! Thief!
Dean gasped, twisting as the words cut into him like a knife, hurting. He brushed his hand across his face trying to rid himself of the clinging fog. "Who's there?" he gasped drunkenly.
A face suddenly formed out of the whiteness, lips peeled back in a grimace of hate. Layla's face.
Killer, she hissed, drawing back into the swirls. It was my turn! You didn't deserve this gift!
Dean jerked back . The bitter words a physical blow. "It wasn't my fault!" He cried and his eyes fluttered. His eyes didn't feel open but he could still see.
Butcher! A woman's face whose name he had never learned darted at him. She had been torn to pieces because he couldn't reach her in time to stop the demon. Her voice hot needles sinking into his brain.
You tore out your brother's heart, destroyed his chance for happiness…..Jessica brushed by him, If you'd stayed away….
"I didn't know!" Dean exclaimed, desperately grabbing for her, fingers sliding through her. "How could I know!"
Other faces began to form in the whiteness, shifting in and out of the mist, closer with each passing second as they spat words into his face. Faces buried in his memory, each an accusation, a victim, a failure, each dead because of him.
Sadist…. Psycho…
He flinched away, falling to his knees, raising his hands to fend them off, the mist shifted, changing colors, turning red, thick, rising to drown him in blood again…
You deny it?….the lives you've ended…the horrors you've inflicted?...
It cut through his mind like a serrated surgical instrument, as deeply as it could go. Dean ground his hands into his eyes, gasping as the pain shot through his skull. He strained his eyes into this non-vision, aware but unrecognizing. His heart began to race and he felt lightheaded, sick, the cold crawling inside him, freezing his muscles.
Monster…
He flailed out with his hands, searching for anything solid to hang on to.
Then Cynthia Bailey, drenched in scarlet, stepped from the swirling red mist, thrusting a bloody, limp bundle of tiny arms and legs into his grasp.
Baby killer!
"NO!" Dean yelled, throwing his arms over his face, feeling himself shatter like glass, little pieces exploding outward in a bizarre puzzle that could never be reassembled.
He opened his glazed eyes, lying on the cold floor, the room shifting and twisting as he tried to focus, making him sick. He dragged himself upright, clutching the furniture, stumbling toward the door. Fixated on the simple realization of what he had to do.
Sam , his consciousness pulled to far away to hear his brother, never moved as Dean staggered from the room.
Dean wasn't sure how he found his way downstairs. Through shimmering waves of fever the steps seemed to slew around as he tried to walk, making him stumble drunkenly, nearly going over the short rail. He caught himself against the wall and used it to keep himself upright.
He could feel the heat pouring off of him as the blood pounded through his veins, his body jerking with every pump of his heart. He stopped his forward momentum on the last stair post, catching the carved wooden ball at the top. The pain in his hand as he stopped himself almost blacked him out as he felt the stitches tearing through his flesh. He grabbed the edge of the bandage in his teeth and ripped it off. Blood began to drip from his hand. He hung there, sick and dizzy, trying to remember what he was doing, What he had to do.
He clutched his head with one hand, tearing into his hair. He wanted the pain to stop. God, he just wanted the voices to stop….
He only knew one way to do that and he already knew where to find it. The pint of Jack Daniels was right where David had said it was, tucked under the counter. The seal was broken and the bottle was about a fourth empty but it was enough. He unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle up, drinking until he gagged. He coughed and wiped the whiskey spilling down his face on his arm, eyes watering. The liquor seared his throat and hit his stomach like a fireball, sending more heat to burn behind his eyes. He cradled his bleeding hand against his belly, blood dripping down his skin.
The car….he had to get to the car, it was important. Everything had to be just right and clothes, after all, made the monster.
He pushed away from the counter, a trail of bloody handprints marking his passing.
Sam woke up suddenly, not from a dream but from the cold sensation that something was wrong.
He jerked around to look at Dean's empty bed, blankets thrown on the floor, the door to the hall was open.
SHIT! Fuck! God, he should have seen this coming!
He rolled out of the bed and threw himself into the clothes lying on the floor, jamming his feet into his sneakers, hands shaking.
How could he have been so stupid! He wasn't sure if was referring to himself or Dean. He scuffed through the salt line at the door, to pissed and scared to care. He was without a clue as to where Dean might have gone.
He should have tied Dean to the fucking bed!
He circled down the carpeted stairs, stopping dead as he discovered, the bloody trail Dean had left behind him. He went out to the veranda, tumbling down the steps. The Impala was still parked in the darkness under the far trees. He jogged over to it and checked through the windows to make sure Dean wasn't passed out in the backseat, wishing he was.
Heavy clouds raced across the fading moon, alternately lighting the scene and plunging it into blackness. Cold wind blasted through his thin shirt and the trees rattled their branches together over his head. Lightning illuminated the western sky and thunder murmured again in the distance. He stood there for a moment rubbing the back of his neck trying to think.
He mentally kicked himself repeatedly. He should have forced the issue. He should have gotten Dean the hell away from there the first night, when he started acting so weird.
The only bright spot was that Dean did not usually go far when he made the decision to waste himself with liquor. Assuming that was what this was, and Sam had to admit the last few days had been more than enough to send Dean on one of his infrequent benders. Dean needed to be able to get back to wherever they were calling home at the time, or at least make it possible for Sam to find him. The fact that the Impala was still there was a good sign that he was probably on the grounds somewhere. But considering the size of the place and how well Dean seemed to be able to find his way around, God knew how long it would take to find him.
Dean liked vantage points when he was in one of his damned moods so Sam decided to start high and work his way down but it still took almost an hour to comb the roof and higher balconies. There were so many rooms he could be anywhere. He wasn't sure if he was upset or relieved as each place turned out to be wrong.
Sam was panicked and shivering by the time he made it to thesecond floor balcony that overlooked the empty pool. Ragged steaks of lightning tore through the sky overhead and thunder was once again rattling the windows. Cold wind flapped Sams clothes and tossed his hair in is eyes.
A muffled cough jerked Sam's eyes to the far corner of the building where the stone railing met the wall. Dean was pressed into the corner, almost hidden in the shadows. He was bare footed, elbows on his knees, one hand cupped over his eyes, the other dangling forward, a pint of Jack held loosely in his fingers. Sam had no clue as to where he might have gotten it, but then remembered David's comment about the bottle under the counter. Trust Dean to recall that piece of information.
Relief and fury battled for dominance as Sam stalked across the balcony. "Christ, Dean! I've been looking everywhere for you!"
"Not everywhere or you woulda found me sooner," Dean drawled. He sounded like he'd been eating razor blades. He tilted the blood stained bottle of Jack up to his lips and took a long pull, coughing as swallowed. That pissed Sam off even more.
"I woke up and you were gone. How long have you been up here?"
Dean glared at him. "You know," he spat in disgust, "you never did sleep through the night, not when you were a baby and not now." He started to take another drink but let his hand fall back. "Not long enough." He said in reply to Sam's question, sucking in a deep breath and coughing.
Sam could see him shivering in the cold air. An occasional icy tap of rain his Sam's skin.
"How much you had to drink?" he demanded.
Dean's glare this time should have at least caused Sam an embolism. "Not nearly enough, Dad."
Sam drew breath again and tried to think how to handle this. This wasn't Dean's usual, rather gentle, descent into a drunken stupor. In an obtuse sort of way, even though he hated what Dean would do to himself, those brief, unblocked moments were Sam's only insight into Dean's heart. This wasn't like that. This was a desperate and violent effort to shut himself off as fast as he could, any way he could and damn the consequences.
"Get up, Dean!" Sam suddenly yelled, decision made. "We gonna get our shit and get outta here! I don't care what Dad owes this guy!"
Sam saw Dean draw in and expel another lungful of air.
"Fuck you." Dean said, without looking at him.
Dean raised the bloody bottle again but Sam reached out and jerked it out of his hand. Dean swore at the pain it caused.
"Damn you!" he snarled pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. "Gimme that!"
Resigned to the fact that he may as well pitch his head after it, Sam threw the bottle as hard as he could. He heard it shatter faintly in the darkness and braced himself.
Dean stepped into the fragmented moonlight. Lightning threw everything into brilliant relief. Dean's shirt hung unbuttoned and sweat glistened on his face and chest, rolling down his body to soak his jeans. He stared at Sam, fists balled at his side. His face was as pale as the stone around him and the look in his eyes was nothing Sam had ever seen before. He breathed heavily through his mouth, ribs rising and falling under his taut skin.
Sam recoiled at the sudden, sickening smell of sweat and blood that rolled over him from Dean. With a chill he recognized the blood soaked jeans and shirt Dean had worn that night at the Bailey's. His stomach turned over and his heart began to race.
"Dean…" he began softly, wary now. "Why are you wearing those clothes?"
Dean coughed, glancing down at himself. He looked up at Sam in surprise. "Whadaya mean? Don't you recognize trophies when you see 'em?' He held his shirt out away from his body and turned his leg. "Hunter's gotta have trophies? Right?" he pointed randomly at a large red stain on his shirt.
"See here?" He held it out for Sam to see better. "This is that…kid in St. Louis? You remember him? Blonde hair? Real cute." He moved his finger to his blood soaked thigh. "This is from that woman I killed in Morrilton…no, no wait,you weren't there for that." He swallowed, grimacing at the pain in his throat. "That's right! You were in college! While I was out slaughtering people-" He coughed again, wiping a hand across his forehead.
San took a step forward but Dean backed off. "No, I'm not done, not even close." He slapped his other bloody leg. "This is Layla! And Marshall…and…. Shit, there's so many I can't even remember them all. But they're all here, their blood, all over me….inside me…." His face crumpled and he bent over, pressing his hands to his eyes, shoulders shaking. "God, That's all I do….Christ, Jack the Rippers got nothin' on me." He sucked in air through his teeth and straightened, swiping at his eyes, half choking, holding his injured hand against his stomach. Sam could see more blood smearing across Deans belly as he moved it. Dean sniffed, staring blearily at Sam.
Sam held out his hand. "Dean, please, we just need to get away from here. Something here is doing this to you, making you feel these things. Once we go, everything will be all right—"
Dean snarled and swore at him, stumbling back against the balcony railing, coughing. Sam gasped and shot upright, fearing Dean would accidentally go over the side.
"You don't get it, Sammy….you never have." Dean grabbed his head in one hand, twisting his fingers in his raggedly cut hair. "You got the brains, you were smart. You got away. Me, I'm just the muscle, I'm stupid. I'm Dad's fucking attack dog. I kill on command. That's all I'm good for. I can't walk away. I don't even need Dad to order it anymore, I just do it 'cause I can!" Dean sank to the ground, knees akimbo, head back against the railing.
Sam felt helpless against whatever had Dean by the throat. He knew Dean didn't really mean or even realize what he was saying but he was terrified by the driving emotion behind it. Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth. He cautiously approached Dean and crouched down, putting a hand on Dean's knee, leaving it there even as Dean jerked his knee to get it off. Sam dug his fingers in. "Dean…"
Dean shocked him by suddenly uncoiling from the ground, knocking Sam backwards, straddling him, hands forcing Sam's shoulders down. Sam's head rang from hitting the stone floor and he shook his head, eyelids fluttering.
Dean leaned close over him, his sweat dripping onto Sam face. "What's wrong, Sammy? I thought you liked it when I got plastered and spilled my guts to you?" He grabbed Sam's hand and crushed it against his own chest. "I can feel you heart beating, Sam….can you feel mine?"
Sam felt Dean's heart thundering under his hand. He rocked to try and dislodge Dean but it was useless. "Dean, please! You've been through hell the last few weeks. You're exhausted, you're sick. I know what happened at the Bailey's hit you hard. But you did—"
Dean cut him off with a coarse laugh. "The right thing? Is that what I friggin' did? Hit me hard?" Dean laughed again, full of contempt and disgust. "I killed a pregnant woman, Sammy, I killed her baby. My pinnacle of accomplishment in a lifetime of destruction!"
Sam shook his head again and grabbed Dean's arm with his free hand in a panic. "No! When her husband bit her she stopped being a woman. It's terrible, but it's true! You had no choice! You know what would have happened with both of them if you hadn't pulled the trigger!"
Dean leaned closer, still clutching Sam's hand against his chest and put his lips next to Sam's ear, the slick sweat on his face rubbing against Sam. "When I shot Cynthia Bailey," he hissed. "She died. But her baby? " Sam grew cold as Dean went on. "You ever watch a baby die inside it's mother, Sammy, boy? Watch it writhe, struggle, just under the skin, until it finally quits moving?" He released Sam's hand abruptly and got to his feet, swaying over him.
"Your never gonna get it. I finally do though." He snorted and shook his head. A shiver rocked him from head to toe and he backed slowly away from Sam, eyes down. He reached a hand behind him, dropping into a crouch. Sam saw moonlight flash on metal.
Sam slowly got to one knee and held his hands out, palms up. "Dean…."
Sam braced himself to leap across the short space between himself and where Dean now knelt, his favorite hunting knife pressing against the thin skin of his forearm ready to draw up toward the elbow. There wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that Dean knew exactly how to do it so there would be no hope in hell of getting him help before he bled to death. Slashing across your wrists was for pussy's and grandstanders who wanted attention. Up the arm, into the elbow was for people who meant business.
Dean's eyes rolled up to Sam's face. "I've been drowning in blood since I was four years old, Sam…." He winced. The muscles of the injured hand holding the knife tightened convulsively.
"Dean! Jesus!…For Christ sake, Dean, don't!" Sam cried, forcing himself to stay where he was despite his every instinct. As Sam watched, a thin line of red appeared just under the blade. "Dean, please! You don't know what you're doing!" Sam voice shook with desperate emotion, tears starting to spill from his eyes.
"Oh no, Sam…" Dean's voice was beyond tired. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm putting an end to it. You don't want to see this, go….I wish you would." Dean's voice shook too, his glazed eyes were wild. Blood began to trickle in a thin line, running down his arm to drip off his fingers. Dean's eyes flicked down for an instant as the red drops hit the floor then shot back up to Sam. The corners of Dean's mouth twitched into crooked smile, beads of sweat on his face ran together and joined the blood dripping to the floor. His eyes softened. His voice broke. "I can't do this anymore…" The blade slid upward.
"CHRIST, DEAN, NO!" Sam screamed, throwing himself forward.
Giggle, I didn't say I wouldn't leave it hanging, now did I?